Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound pounded at the door like an impatient spell.
I stirred in bed, groaning. "What the…"
Another round of knocks followed—sharper this time.
Bruce groaned from across the room. "If that's a theory class… I'm dropping out."
Mark buried his head beneath a pillow. "Make it stop…"
Isaiah just mumbled something that sounded like an ancient curse.
Then I heard it—clear, familiar, and a little annoyed.
"Orien! Open up!"
I blinked. That was… Fay.
I groaned, slid out of bed, shoved on my black dorm slides, and shuffled to the door. The others made no attempt to move.
I cracked it open, and there they were—Fay, Emilia, and Alexandra Clair De Lune, standing like they hadn't just crawled out of dreamspace. Their uniforms were pristine: black with silver lining, and tailored with sharp-shouldered elegance.
Each of them wore a House insignia on the left breast of their uniform:
Fay: a crescent moon with twin veils, glowing faint lavender—the mark of the High Priestess Pathway, House of Dawn.
Emilia: a silver wheel encircling a suspended blade and feather—the symbol of the Justice Pathway, House of Turning.
Alexandra: a radiant eye inside a sunburst disc, golden and bold—sign of the Sun Pathway, House of Echo.
I squinted. "Why are you all in uniform? Class doesn't start till tomorrow, right?"
Fay gave me a long, pained look. "Orien… did none of you read the schedule posted in your dorms?"
Emilia crossed her arms. "Classes start today. Sunday's the first official day of the academic cycle."
Alexandra just nodded once. "If you hurry, you won't be late."
I turned just as Bruce fell out of bed with a thud. Mark sat up in pure existential horror. Isaiah blinked once, sighed, and rolled out of bed like gravity had betrayed him.
I ran my hand down my face, sighing.
"Give us five minutes."
I shut the door. Chaos erupted behind it.
Exactly five minutes later, we emerged—scrubbed, slightly disheveled, but dressed in the standard Umbra Arcanum Academy uniforms: matte black with silver trim, engraved with personalized house sigils on the chest.
My uniform, like the others, was sleek—black with silver lining, tailored to fit cleanly across the shoulders and arms.
On my chest, stitched in subtle thread that shimmered when the light hit it just right, was a black sun, half-eclipsed by a silver crescent moon, and surrounded by rippling rings of dark ink.
It wasn't flashy—but it drew the eye.
There was something about the symbol that didn't sit still. The more you stared at it, the more it seemed to… move.
Bruce eyed his with a snort. "As long as it's not a theory class… I'll live."
Fay smiled knowingly.
"It's Theory based," Emilia said, unable to hide her amusement.
Bruce froze. "…Damn."
Mark laughed. "You walked right into that one."
Fay brushed a wrinkle from her sleeve. "Let's move. First-years who show up late get assigned library transcription until the next moon cycle."
Isaiah groaned. "I already hate this school."
We hurried down the corridor, past breathing portraits and humming chandeliers, toward our first official class—toward ink, shadow, and whatever this place had planned for us.
We kept running.
"Wait—Alexandra?" I said between breaths. "Why are you running with us? You're not a first-year."
"Yeah, I know," she huffed, cheeks a little pink. "But I'm still late to my own class."
"Oh…" I replied, sweat beading at my brow. Even the serious ones can sleep in, I thought. Guess no one's immune to Eclipsara's weird circadian rhythms.
At the end of the long corridor, a branching hallway split us. Alexandra veered left with a quick wave, and the rest of us bolted right. The portraits lining the walls—all alive, of course—called out with theatrical groans.
"You're late!"
"Hurry before he starts talking to the walls again!"
"Oh no, not the ink lecture!"
We ran faster.
The obsidian door at the end loomed like a judge, silent and foreboding. Mark pushed it open with both hands, and it creaked dramatically as if disappointed in our tardiness.
Inside, the classroom was unlike anything I'd imagined.
Rows of desks hovered slightly above the floor, shaped from semi-solid shadows that shifted like rippling ink whenever a student moved. When someone sat or turned, the chair subtly adjusted—part liquid, part illusion. It felt… alive.
Dozens of candles floated high above, flickering with gentle blue flame, each held in the grasp of ink tendrils that writhed in slow, dreamlike spirals. The air smelled faintly of lavender parchment and something like storm-touched stone.
"Whoa…" I whispered, the sound barely escaping my throat. "That's… cool."
From the front of the room, a voice snapped like dry thunder.
"Ah. So the sleepers have arrived."
An old man stood by the glowing lectern, arms behind his back. He looked to be in his sixties, with deep brown skin, no hair on his head, and a long, immaculately kept white beard. His eyes—piercing and brown with glints of inklight—met each of ours in turn.
"I am Professor Benjamin Earl Spooks," he said, pausing for effect. "You may call me Professor Spooks. And yes, I've heard every possible comment about my name, so do keep your wits sharper than your tongues."
A few students chuckled quietly.
"You're late," he added, eyes narrowing slightly. "But as it's your first day… you get a pass."
We all exhaled.
"But only once."
I gulped.
And just like that, the class began.
We all slid into the cluster of empty seats near the center of the room. I glanced around.
Guess no one wants to sit here, I thought.
As I lowered myself onto the shadowy chair, it rippled beneath me—like dipping into an ink-laced pool. The tendrils adjusted and settled, forming the perfect cradle of support. Not quite solid. Not quite liquid. Definitely magic.
At the front of the room, Professor Spooks turned sharply toward the black-glass board. With a flick of his hand, a stick of shimmering ink—like translucent chalk—coalesced between his fingers. He began to write.
"Since it's the first day," he said without looking back, "I won't go too hard on you."
The entire class exhaled in relief—including me.
"...Or maybe I should."
The chalk paused mid-letter. It quivered for a second before vanishing in a puff of black mist.
Professor Spooks turned, his expression unreadable.
"Welcome," he said, "to Thaumaturgy 101."
A collective groan echoed around the room.
Beside me, Bruce let out an exaggerated sigh… then a small whimper.
"Bruce, you okay?" I asked under my breath.
"No," he muttered. "I'm gonna flunk this class before it even starts…"
Damn. Big guy has a heart after all, I thought.
Professor Spooks paced slowly across the floor, ink tendrils rising at his feet like respectful serpents.
He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing at the middle rows—at us.
"Let's begin with a question," he said. "What is ink?"
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And then, the floating chalk board shifted on its own, revealing a second glowing sentence beneath:
"All ink remembers. Some ink lies. Some ink lives."
The lights in the room flickered.
And just for a second… I could swear the shadow-chair beneath me breathed.